The day comes with queuing birds
Bragging of worms and a lack of hawks.
Wing to wing in a pecking line
On the pricking wire
That separates the wildflower from the wheat;
The culled herd from the crop;
The walker from the things he sees.
Man seeks the silence and the trees;
With green fingers claim his peace
I see the talon and the needed grief;
The blood and life that stutters on a blade
Of grassy death, half-hidden in a life.
They ramble empty swathes
On paths hung heavy with the stench of men.
Watched by menageries in mocking sight
As if to gloat on senses lost; on withered
husks of Adam in a rainproof skin.
Leave me with the chestnut and the leveret;
The cackle of the hooded crow.
To see the pecking lines of men
From bird-side of the pricking wire.